


Treat

by yeaka



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir’s brought to meet Elrond’s foster-fathers in Formenos.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Meeting the In-Laws” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Two days after their arrival, they’re summoned for dinner in Formenos, and Elrond comes to kneel at his feet and ask, “Please, join us tonight.”

Lindir, still perched on the bed with his knuckles white in the crimson sheets, wants to say _no_ again. Elrond didn’t ask before. Elrond saw his anxiety and let him shut himself away in their quarters, because _Valinor_ is already more than he can handle, let alone the great Fëanor himself. 

But Elrond takes his hand and covers it, squeezes reassuringly and promises, “The others have ridden for Tirion. It will only be Maedhros and Maglor, and that is all I wished for you to meet, and even they will not be here much longer—Mandos only permits this for the holiday.”

And Lindir wasted much of that in bed or anxiously cleaning their quarters. Elrond stayed with him more than he deserved. But Elrond longs to see the men he considers his foster-fathers again, and Lindir sees that depth in Elrond’s eyes. He never was any good at denying Elrond anything. He would’ve sailed here much sooner, if not for Elrond’s insistence that they wait until he was ready.

He lied. He still isn’t ready. But he nods anyway, because Elrond’s all he’s ever wanted. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when the sons of Fëanor finally see the riffraff their beloved foster-son has chained himself too. They rode to this place on the same horse, but Lindir doubts they’ll leave together. He murmurs, “Alright,” and clutches tightly to Elrond’s hand, just in case it’s the last touch he gets. 

Elrond’s smile is radiant. He rises to his feet and bends forward, enveloping Lindir in a warm embrace that melts Lindir down to nothing—he _lives_ for these touches. He wraps his arms tentatively around his mighty lord and tries to memorize everything. Elrond kisses his cheek and whispers, “It will go well, I promise. I know you fret still, but I assure you, my darling Lindir, that you are impossible to dislike.”

Lindir smiles hollowly and resists the urge to pull Elrond down to bed with him. When Elrond detangles their limbs, Lindir lets himself be gently tugged off the mattress. He isn’t dressed for a dinner with lords. But he _has_ no rich enough robes for Noldor princes. Not that robes would disguise anything. He’s sure they’d sense his lowliness no matter what. He doesn’t even speak the right language here. But they were in Middle Earth once, he reminds himself, and they must know. And if they conduct any of their conversations in Ancient Quenya... perhaps it best he not know the words anyway.

He lets Elrond guide him to the door and out into the hallway. Their fingers stay entwined, though he wonders if even that is a mistake; it seems so _bold_. They pass down the long hallway, up a flight of stairs, and across another corridor, Elrond parts towering doors that open into the dining room. Lindir hasn’t been here yet—their first night, he feigned sickness to return to their quarters. He thinks he belongs better in the servant’s hall. He’s still ushered through, and both princes sitting at the far end of the table raise their handsome heads. Maedhros looks a great warrior in his fitted robes, his unusually cropped copper hair drawn into a tight ponytail and his skin a mass of sun-kissed freckles and noble scars. Maglor appears gentler but no less highborn in his lavender robes and dazzling jewelry—his black hair, lithe neck, and long fingers are all draped in glittering gems. Lindir recognizes both more from legend than his first trip through the gates—he couldn’t bring himself to really look up then, but stayed bent in a permanent bow. He bows again now, low enough that he nearly scrapes the floor, and he can feel Elrond watching him. He can’t help himself. The golden circlet he wears about his head, a gift from his lord, seems out of place here. He deserves no splendor where a crown should sit on these princes. Elrond greets them both by name—“Maedhros, Maglor,”—and a subtler bow of his head. Then he sweeps forward, his arm catching about Lindir’s waist in the process.

Lindir is brought to a seat on Maglor’s side of the table, though he carefully makes sure Elrond is in the middle. Perhaps it would make more sense for them to sit on opposite sides—two elves each—but he can’t bring himself to part that far from Elrond. He needs this support. Under the table, Elrond’s hand smoothes across his thigh. If Lindir did that back in Imladris, it would be a prelude to the night, but here, it’s merely reassuring. Lindir sucks in a steadying breath.

Maedhros, who already has a plate in front of him, gestures to the servant by the wall and orders, “Fetch two more settings, will you?” The servant bows and retreats, much as Lindir would. The language is his own: a courtesy for Elrond, no doubt, and it gives Lindir some relief.

Maglor says, “I am pleased you chose to join us. We remained behind for this, you know.”

“I know,” Elrond answers, as a goblet and plate is set before him. The same is given to Lindir, who eyes the large dishes before him and wonders at a pile of strange berries he’s never seen before. “I hope it will prove worth the decision for you. It certainly is for me; I had wished you to meet my partner for some time now.”

 _Partner_. Lindir had lifted his goblet to his mouth, hoping to deal with his parched throat, but the single word makes him choke. He’s over it quickly, but not quickly enough. He can feel his cheeks flushing. Across the table, Maedhros is eyeing him curiously. Lindir can’t meet Maedhros’ eye.

Maglor startles him by saying, “He is quite beautiful, Elrond. I can see the attraction.”

Lindir’s completely scarlet. _The_ Maglor called him beautiful. It doesn’t seem real. Maedhros comments lightly, “He does look a bit young for you, though.”

Having had that discussion with Elrond many times, even though he doesn’t _care_ about such things, Lindir’s heart sinks. He half expects Elrond to sigh and agree like usual, but before this new host, he casually responds, “He is less young to me than I to you, even for a father figure.”

Maedhros quirks a grin and returns, “This is true. And perhaps it is best if he has not seen all the worst of the world. It eases me to know that you have the good company of an undamaged soul.”

“The torment of a soul has no bearing on how much I wish it around me,” Elrond counters, and Lindir gets the distinct impression that they aren’t quite speaking of him. He’s still pleased that, at least, he wasn’t thrown out at the first meeting. When Maedhros smiles thinly and returns to his food, Lindir follows suit. He hasn’t eaten much since their arrival, being too nervous for it, and he’s still nervous now, but the distraction proves useful. Maedhros and Maglor are already halfway through their plates, and when discussion returns, it flows mostly between them and Elrond, all three respecting the bubble of silence that Lindir casts around himself. Perhaps they can sense how uncomfortable he is and they’re kindly allowing him time to adjust. Or perhaps he isn’t worthy of discussion, and Elrond’s hand on his leg is the only thing keeping Lindir at this table.

When most of the food is eaten and a heated discussion of Tirion’s politics—none of which Lindir understands—has taken over, Maedhros finally rises to his feet with his goblet in his hand. He suggests, “Shall we retire to the sitting room?” It gives Lindir a quick stab of fear—he’d hoped for a swift retreat. 

Maglor is the one to answer, “I should hope so. I have much to ask the newest member of our family, and perhaps a nice sofa by the fire would be more conducive to that.”

It takes Lindir a second to realize that Maglor means him. He feels a swirl of warmth in his chest but still puts his hand over Elrond’s under the table. Elrond turns to catch his eye, waiting, and Lindir knows he could end this. If he says he must go, Elrond will let him go.

But it means _so much to Elrond_ that he stay, so he clears his throat and says a meek, “Yes.” Maglor gives him an encouraging smile. 

The sitting room they retreat to is smaller than the dining room, cozier, with a fireplace already blazing and three plush sofas arranged evenly around it. Lindir sits next to Elrond again, close enough that their shoulders and knees brush, with Maedhros and Maglor across from them. They each set their goblets down on a low wooden table between, Maedhros placing a bottle of wine in the center. The orange firelight compliments Maedhros’ complexion, the corners of the room thrown into shadows. It seems too intimate a place to share with these people, but Maglor starts with a gentle smile, “I hope you are not too overwhelmed here, Lindir.”

The insight behind the question is terrifying. Lindir isn’t sure whether to lie with a denial or not. Instead he opts to loop a conspicuous hand around Elrond’s arm and murmur sheepishly, “I am... not alone.” Elrond turns to pat Lindir’s hand fondly. He’s surprised when Maglor’s smile only grows.

“You have kept him happy, I see. We are most grateful for that. Elrond tells us you took very good care of him back in Imladris.”

It was Lindir’s job. They must know that he was only a servant. _Is_ only a servant, really. He doesn’t know quite what to say. Elrond says for him, “I am not sure what I would do without him by my side anymore. He had become so integral to the smooth running of my home, and now he is such an invaluable part of my life.” Lindir absolutely _glows_. When he thinks of it like that, as just him _and Elrond_ —Elrond wanting Lindir to meet this last key piece of his life—it’s easier. 

For the first time, Lindir preemptively speaks, onto to bow his head along with it and announce, “Thank you for helping my lord Elrond become such a great lord as he is. I am truly honoured to be by his side.”

To his surprise, Maedhros snorts. Maglor’s mouth crinkles as though he’s going to laugh, but instead he says, “Thank you, that is a kind sentiment. ...But I am not sure we did more good than harm.”

“You were very good to me,” Elrond throws in, “and you know I will not hear otherwise.” There’s a sternness in his eyes that says that’s the end of it. Lindir would never dream of defying that, though he’s never received such warning himself. The first and second-born sons of Fëanor could do as they like, but Maedhros gives a weary bow of his head and raises his goblet before indulging in another sip.

Maglor says softly, “Your compassion has only grown in the waning years, Elrond. We benefit greatly from your forgiveness.” Elrond looks about to say something to that, but Maglor turns to Lindir instead and changes the subject to: “Do you enjoy Valinor, at least? You have spent much time in your quarters, and I hope that is not for dislike of ours shores.”

“No,” Lindir hurriedly insists, shaking his head so hard that the little braids on either side of his face that Elrond twisted in this morning bounce across his cheeks. “No, these are lovely lands! I simply... ah... it is just very new to me, but...” But he’ll adjust. For Elrond. He glances sideways, finding Elrond’s supportive smile and a warm hand around his. At least he can truthfully finish, “I am in awe of it all.”

“You are Silvan, are you not?” Maedhros asks. Lindir nearly cringes. It seems _wrong_ to admit that here, but he nods. There’s no judgment in Maedhros’ voice, but Lindir can’t believe that. “And an... attendant?”

“You helped run Imladris,” Maglor rephrases, which seems a stretch. Lindir tilts his head, unsure if he should nod. “Do you find enjoyment in organization?”

“Yes.” 

“Have you a sword?” Maedhros tries.

Lindir colours again and mutters, “I... ah... I am no fighter...”

And again, neither looks particularly off-put at this news. He knows both are legendary with a sword. Even Elrond is. But Lindir’s...

“And you love him,” Maedhros says quietly, not even quite a question. Lindir’s brow knits; he loves Elrond with every bone in his body. He’s never loved anyone, anything so much. He’s sure he radiates it. Maedhros adds slowly, “You speak very highly of him, and he of you. You speak of being honoured...”

“I love him,” Lindir says, because if there’s only one thing Maedhros and Maglor must know of him, it’s that. “Very, very dearly.” Elrond is the entirety of his world. He feels a chaste kiss press against his forehead, and he snaps from his daze to glance at his lover, who looks so _proud_ that Lindir can hardly stand it. When Elrond said it was time to board his ship, Lindir didn’t hesitate to follow. He wishes he hadn’t waited to properly meet the two elves Elrond wished most to see. He tries to communicate with his eyes just how surely he’ll always come when Elrond calls. 

Elrond says, with eyes only for Lindir, “And I love him very deeply in return.” The room seems to melt away; all there is is _this_ , and Lindir _adores_ it; he could burst from how much he treasures every moment they spend together.

Maglor interrupts that moment by announcing softly, “You make a lovely couple.” Lindir tries to smile. He’s overwhelmed himself almost to the brink of tears; Elrond often does that to him.

Elrond asks of Maedhros, “Perhaps you could teach him how to use a sword, as you first did with Elros.”

Lindir can feel himself paling, but thankfully, Maedhros chuckles, “I do not think he would like that.”

And Elrond sighs wistfully back, “I suppose not. Very well; I will remain his sword.” Lindir’s blessed with another short kiss to his temple. He doesn’t say aloud how much he enjoys Elrond looking out for him that way.

Then Maglor startles, crying a soft, “Oh,” and setting his goblet down to rise to his feet. He gestures for Elrond to follow and says, “I had found some scrolls here I had meant to show you. If Lindir would not mind me borrowing you for a moment?”

Lindir’s instincts say to grab Elrond _hard_ and hold him down, but Lindir is more mature than that and conquers the selfish urge. He nods and lets Elrond rise, relishing the touch as Elrond’s hand lingers upon his shoulder to the last second. Then the two of them retreat to the back of the sitting room, towards the filled shelves near the door, and Lindir’s left across from one of the greatest warriors Middle Earth has ever known. 

In the background, Lindir can hear Elrond and Maglor’s shuffling and mutterings as they pull out a scroll across a long table, but their voices are too soft to carry. Lindir watches Maedhros and struggles for something, anything, to say.

Maedhros tells him quietly, “I am glad that it is you Elrond found.”

Lindir’s eyes widen. It seems absurd for a great lord to say. But Maedhros continues, “He has a gentle soul, despite the great atrocities he has been forced to battle. I am glad that he found someone who, above all, can give him the peace he so wholly deserves.”

Lindir agrees that Elrond deserves peace. But he never thought of himself as something that brought it. Maedhros bows his head—a Noldor prince bowing to _Lindir_ , of all things—and finishes, “Thank you.”

Lindir is too stunned and overcome to answer. Before he has the chance, Maglor reappears beside him, smiling affectionately down to say, “I have just been informed that you are a minstrel, as well. While I leave Elrond with those scrolls, might I interest you in a walk to see my harp?”

Lindir’s awed. He glances at Maedhros again, who regards Lindir with the same warmth Maglor shows. This is nothing like how he thought it would be. But then, he knew they would love Elrond above all, because he couldn’t imagine anyone spending any time with Elrond and not experiencing such ardor. He struggles within himself—of course he’d _love_ to see the harp of one of the greatest minstrels to ever play. But if Elrond is busy, then Lindir will have to leave his side.

Elrond would probably like that. So Lindir admits, “Yes, thank you.” And when they pass Elrond on the way to the door, he gives Lindir another proud smile. Lindir replays Maedhros’ words in his head. And he thinks, for the first time since stepping through these gates, that perhaps he can be good for Elrond after all.


End file.
